on this brand new day we shall raise
by goeties
Summary: Harry Potter won the war. Why then he can't rest? Two - shot, Canon compliant to this point, angsty but not all the way, after Battle of Hogwarts


It was done.

Over.

Whatever was left, whatever should be done from now on…that was not up to him. Not now. Any day but today. There was nothing he wanted to do more then just rest. Rest and eat. He didn't remember when was the last time he tasted something that wasn't ash or blood or that cloying sweet taste of dark magic that just didn't fade from the air and hanged over Hogwarts heavy and oppressive like the Dementor's fog.

If there was celebrations going on…none of it happened here. Sobs and howls and keening were suffocating any joy as too few living mourned the dead. Bodies lay, already covered in familiar mud-brown blankets, in one row like a strange and morbid harvest. On the stone floor, friends and family alike and none of them will be ever coming back. Not like him, never like him. No matter their prayers and wishes and begging, the silent sacks of blood and thin fragile skin that once housed vibrant joyful souls were growing as cold as the ground they lay on, unmoving and forever lost.

Harry was shaking. It was not the coldness of the air, no matter that this early May morning turned out chilly and cloudy and his clothes were soaked through from when he fell onto the wet grass after flash of beautiful terrifying green bloomed from the tip of familiar wand, claiming him for bare moments. It reached deeper, down to the very bones, the sort of penetrating freezing cold that gathered and settled in the pit of the stomach like a score of sharp glittering diamond-like icicles and spread, small and restless little hands that crawled straight to his chest to grip the already abused, sluggishly beating heart. His legs felt stiff and barely carried him through this carnage, knees locked, because he was afraid if he relaxed even for one second, he would not be able to make another step and collapse and not pick himself up till the next century.

Bless the invisibility cloak. He doubted that even without it anyone would truly see him, with their empty uncomprehending eyes staring into nothingness, searching for answers that would not come, but he would rather not take chances. He was free. Free of all of this and they had no right, no right to stop him now, to demand his time and his attention. He would not be provoked into any action beside those he wanted to take now. But he didn't want them to find him and ask, to look at him like he just knew all the things that should come after. He would resent them forever if they do, because he just might agree. He would help. And help. And then help some more and will never again do anything just for himself fold under all the weight of other people problems as quietly as Voldemort's body hit the ground. Nobody will hear that insignificant sound of already wounded heart being broken.

His feet hit the piece of grovel. No head turned, no spell get thrown in his direction but the breath goes still in his chest non the less. It hurts. Started to burn, but he couldn't make himself take a gulp of the stale dusty air before he had left the Great Hall.

It couldn't come soon enough and, by the time it did, he was wheezing hidden in his silence spell, chocking with tears that didn't want to fall, trapped inside alongside this terrible rage, impotent and biting, at everything he had to do, at Snape and Dumbledore and whole this wicked terrible world who asked him for his very life and then took it, if only for a moment. He was still shaking, pain just started to settle in as the adrenaline began to fade, but he walked till he finely could walk no more, a portrait with a bowl of fruits before his eyes was strangely edged in black. He tickled the pear entering the empty kitchens, making his way to the counter on a stubbornly rigid legs and took in the abandoned food and plates and cutlery strewn around as the elves left everything in hurry. He slid the cloak off, putting the shimmering cloth in his pocket, wincing at the pain in his hands. They were full of shards of grovel and pine needles, covered in red burns caused by Fiendfyre, bleeding. Without a moment of thought he waved his wand, his faithful holly wand, whispering in that stupidly mangled Latin and gasping as the cleaning spell hit. He laughed painfully at the sting, blinking hard as he raised his head. His muddled thoughts suddenly felt clearer. Harry put his hand on the handle of the kettle, putting it on the stove, lighting it on.

He would kill for a cup of tea. And maybe, maybe…

* * *

Before the door opened fully, Harry was already on the floor, piece of bread and knife caked in butter didn't have a time to hit the stone as he was already hidden behind the table, crouched low with wand steady in his grip and half a spell past his lips. He lowers his weapon slowly at the sight of wide grey eyes and hands raised in supplication, face so pale and gaunt it looked like it belonged to death itself. They look at each other for a moment, neither changing positions, till Harry started to painfully raise from his knees, bones cracking like he was seventy not seventeen. Draco Malfoy made half a step backwards but stopped when with a small wave of Harry's hand a cup on the saucer plate moved from its place and landed gently on the table closer to the door, sitting neatly, barely two feet away from the other that sat placed closer to the ancient counter. Large pot of tea with slices of lemon slid a couple of inches to stand in the canter. The door closed with a muted click as hesitant shuffling steps moved closer. Harry turned back, knife flying to his hand, clean and shining. With a methodical movements he started putting sandwiches together, ignoring the hard thump of the man sprawling on the bench as if his strings were forcibly cut. Soon enough the whole plate levitated and settled on the dark polished wood. Harry was grateful for the silence, sending only small fleeting gazes at his companion when he wasn't focused on chewing through the still crunchy bread.

Draco Malfoy looked exactly as Harry felt.

Whatever pride still lingered behind those tired eyes was put on the shelf as he bit savagely in the food and gulped his tea, holding the cup with trembling dirty fingers. Large bloody gash, barely dried, went from his eyebrow next to red rimmed eyes and disappeared in the messy and sweaty blond hair. He was sagging into his seat, defeat climbed on his shoulders, heavy and unwanted burden. Edge of terrible fear took home in the corners of those pale eyes and Harry couldn't help but think that Malfoy wanted nothing more then to just disappear.

Some part of Harry was thankful that Malfoy was here. That stupid and insistent part that needed to take care of every fallen and lost creature right now was purring happily with 'look, look, you did good'. Harry was ready to murder that part in the fallowing months if nothing changes.

The reality was, that he had a godson to raise, but not before he would have to climb the steps of Andromeda Tonks' home and look her in the eye as he tells her that her daughter and her husband are dead.

The reality was, that he now sat with Death Eater, son of another one, nephew of the next, one frightened and scarred victim of skived ideology, born and raised to be someone he was not. And he knew that this boy's fate would more or less lie in his hands.

The reality was that he had this friend, this one brilliant friend who will never go past being glorified secretary as the word 'moodblood' was older then Voldemort's reign.

The reality was - if the wizarding world would not get together its scattered marbles in the next year, Harry would try with everything he was to destroy it from within the same way it nearly destroyed him. The war was blow to many, but few of them fought it. If that didn't suffice, if the loss of the children of Britain will not be remembered for the sacrifice it was, then maybe a revolution will make them reconsider. Harry had little left to loose and quite a few people who will not hesitate to act, should he ask.

He just didn't want to ask.

But he will not let this world persecute a toddler for being born from a father that spend nearly his entire life proving to everyone how human a werewolf can be, nor a misguided child that deserved only a little more then a slap on a wrist, few stern words and a bit of understanding. And certainly not a woman who stood by him and saved the sheep of Britain as much as he did. He will not let anyone hail him as a hero and vomit a string of poisonous nonsense claiming to be under Harry's banner. He will fight. He will. Only not just now. Later. After he will put himself together enough that he won't shatter at the lightest touch.

The times he had unwavering faith were gone. He would wait and see what the 'new' wizarding world was made of.

His vision swam suddenly, amber colored tea splattering over his sleeve and he startled at the feel of chilled hand that was cupping his face, holding it inches from the table. He blinked hard, black spots danced dazzlingly, as he tried to look at the pale face through the veil of wet eyelashes. Hands vanished minutely and he swayed in place before an arm wound itself around his waist, urging him to stand up. He climbed to his feet unsteadily and the world spun for a moment before it settled as he found himself taking short puffs of breath while clinging with whitened fingers to black silky robes. The dizzy spell passed for now and he giggled hysterically, exhaustion pulling at him from every corner.

"Merlin, Potter don't die on me now." Croaked breathless voice next to his ear. "Do you need a healer?"

Harry shook his head slowly, coming to somewhat regret it, but instead he raised his wand, the pot refilled and faded from the view hit with disillusion spell as he took his cloak from the pocket and spread it over both of them. Malfoy chocked out a surprised sound, tightening his grip without thinking and Harry snorted, absurdly amused when the cloth didn't even touch the floor because of their combined height.

"You are sure you want to go anywhere with me?"

"Do you think that we could ever stop?" Harry barely recognized his own voice, half leading and half leaning on the boy who didn't even try to look like he was not keeping himself upright only by clinging to Harry in the same manner.

"Stop what?"

"Pretending. You saved my life. I saved yours...Can we stop pretending that either of us would hurt the other after we went on our way to protect each others asses?"

He didn't expected the answer as they started to climb completely unnecessary amount of stairs, avoiding with their eyes and minds the blood splattered on the floors and statues, unclaimed bodies and piles of ash where few vampires lost their otherwise eternal lives.

"You are such a Gryffindor." Murmured finely Malfoy as Harry started to gingerly tap his wand on the Transfiguration classroom door, before he opened them. They looked at each other with something close to understanding, still trapped under ancient material of the Death's cloak. Harry inclined his head.

"That's not all that I am." Malfoy looked at the levitating teapot swaying softly behind them, disillusionment charm fading, then at Harry. He shook his head.

"Perhaps."

They went in, shutting the door with soft click.


End file.
